Unscripted
by lovablegeek
Summary: [PreRENT] There's an old film in a cardboard box, a memory long forgotten. BennyMarkMaureen. [One shot]


Old film, lying at the bottom of one of the cardboard boxes in the closet where Mark keeps such things. It's from back when most of what Mark filmed, or tried to, was scripted, when he'd borrow any willing friends for actors, and sometimes talk even the unwilling ones into it— a long time ago. There's no label on it, though, and it's been buried beneath other reels of film, forgotten.

If you stick it in the projector and let it run for a few seconds, it opens in a dance class, polished hardwood floor, sunlight through the windows, mirrors on part of the wall, bright. And Benny gliding through the center of the frame, center of attention in the class, graceful, twirling his partner under one outstretched arm, pulling her close again, the two never separated, always with some contact between them. He's graceful, self-assured, certain of himself—to look at him as he is _now_, years later, self-contained businessman, you'd never guess he used to be this boy, this dancer who moves as if he doesn't even touch the ground.

He doesn't notice the camera on him, doesn't seem to notice much besides getting the dance _just _right. Then again, the camera operator—Mark, naturally—is standing in the corner of the room, being careful _not _to be seen as he follows Benny and Maureen across the polished floor of the dance studio, the camera's movement smooth and unfaltering. Always Benny and Maureen, the shining center of attention, and Mark to the side watching. There's no jealousy, though—just the fact that he's filming this moment, unscripted, gives the moment itself a kind of quiet awe, a loving respect in the determination not to miss a single motion.

And then their dance comes to a halt, and Benny releases Maureen with a quick smile. He's not breathing any harder than usual, as if the entire thing had been effortless. His eyes scan the room and fall on Mark, the camera, one or the other or both, and his smile slides into a slightly exasperated expression. "Mark, were you filming me?"

A moment's hesitation, and then Mark responds simply, with a hint of amusement, "Does it look like I was filming you?"

Benny rolls his eyes. "Come on, turn it off. What, are you trying to find something to blackmail me with? Was it that terrible?"

"Absolutely wretched," Maureen says teasingly from behind him. "And you kept stepping on my toes." Benny turns to shoot her a glare, but of course it has no effect.

Mark's laugh drifts from behind the camera. "No, it wasn't terrible at all. You two said I could come watch, what's wrong with me filming you?"

"The problem is…" Benny says, but trails off as he walks toward Mark. He reaches out for the camera, and the image on the film jumps as Mark pulls it out of his reach. "Mark, turn it off."

"Why?" Mark asks playfully, lifting the camera up again to catch Benny in the frame once more. "Is there something wrong with wanting to film my gorgeous—"

Mark's voice cuts off with a yelp as Benny reaches out and grabs the camera before Mark can pull it away. The picture jumps wildly, now pointed at the floor, now at the ceiling as Benny holds it up over Mark's head, the image on the film not nearly clear enough to make out details of any kind. "Benny, don't—you're going to break it!"

"I will_not_ ." Benny's voice is confident, calm, and slightly amused at Mark's panic. "Here, Maur, take this real quick."

He hands the camera off to Maureen, watching with a grin she doesn't bother trying to suppress—the camera captures an instant of her smile before she turns it to face the boys, Mark irritated and looking at Maureen as if he trusts _her _with his camera less than Benny, and Benny grinning and holding Mark back from leaping to the rescue of his precious camera.

"Calm down, Mark," he says into Mark's ear. He's standing behind Mark, arms wrapped around him, and the annoyance on Mark's face begins to fade. "No one's gonna hurt your camera."

"Yeah, but…" He trails off into an incoherent mumble, eyes sliding closed for a moment as Benny's lips find his neck—

The image goes black, all sound stops. Perhaps the camera battery ran out, or Maureen accidentally hit a button—certainly there's film left on the reel. It doesn't really matter either way; it's a moment that is itself forgotten, shoved in the back of the closet and covered in dust.

Old film, lying at the bottom of one of the cardboard boxes in the closet where Mark keeps such things. Old memory, recorded and lost. Old reminder of things long past and not likely to return.


End file.
